Frost
by Becca Stareyes
Summary: Aral and Cordelia get a reminder of Cordelia's mortality. Aral/Cordelia


Cordelia had forgotten her gloves, and had to run back to her room to get them. It was there that she caught Aral seated on the bed, holding what looked to be her hairbrush, the light of Sergyar's setting sun coming in through the window and tinting his white hair shades of rose like the frost outside. "We're going to be late," she chided him affectionately, walking up to him. "I think your hair can do without a brushing."

Aral looked up at her. "Is it time to leave already?"

Cordelia nodded. "Yes," she said, frowning at the unaccustomed feeling of being the first one ready. Aral should have been waiting at the door, as they exchanged familiar jokes about Barrayaran male and female formal dress, while his men at arms brought the groundcar around.

Something about the set to his face reminded her of their first meeting on Barrayar, when she first surprised him at Vorkosigan Surleau, suddenly showing up with the dust of Beta Colony still on her metaphorical boots, to greet a man who had lost his job, his reputation and his love, and that alone was enough to make her take a second look. Something about the way his face was slack and his eyes downcast. She'd seen shadows of that look before, when Miles had gone missing or those awful months when everyone believed that he had died on Jackson's Whole.

But, for once, neither Miles nor Mark was in trouble. They had gotten videos from both of them recently, Miles a happy sort of ragged, talking a mile-a-minute about how the children were, and Ekaterin's new job, and briefly touching on his own work in a satisfied sort of way, and Mark sounding a smug sort of content about having finished school and continuing his own investments, and, with far more in his tone than Cordelia expected he'd ever express in words, talking about him and Kareen. Their boys had grown up into themselves, and while grown ups -- especially Vorkosigans -- could certainly get into enough trouble, for once things were a regular sort of chaos.

Cordelia had been looking forward to tonight's event, which was a reception and reading for a local poet who had been recognized on Barrayar, winning the Vorlow Prize. Not only was it the first year the Prize had gone to someone from Sergyar, it was also rare to see the prize not go to someone writing rigid epic poetry about some long-ago battles. Instead, Kol Aguirre wrote nature poems about the Empire's unterraformed places, and some rather lovely romances, which Cordelia had been tempted to tape to the bathroom mirror, like a teenager, just to see how Aral would react.

But, they'd have some time before the reading and speeches, and Cordelia wasn't going to leave Aral in this state.

She sat down on the bed next to him, causing him to look up. "Now you're the one making us late," he said. "Weren't you looking forward to this?"

"We've got some time," she replied, glancing at the chrono on the wall.

Aral followed her gaze and nodded. "You look like you're about to give some motherly advice to Miles, rather than talking to your husband."

Cordelia cocked her head to the side. "No, this is my wifely advice face, not my motherly advice face. You might have noticed I haven't tried to ruffle your hair yet."

Aral smiled at her. "Good. That might make _after_ the reception a bit awkward if you were still in 'mother' mode, my dear captain."

"I'll hold you to that." Cordelia gave her husband a grin. Since his heart attack, Aral had been taking things a bit slower, without _that_ much prompting. Something like that could scare a man -- for that matter, it was what prompted him to step down into 'retirement' as Viceroy of Sergyar. "So, what were you looking at so intently before I walked in?" she asked .

"Your hairbrush," he said. Before she could ask what about her hairbrush was so interesting, he continued. "You're starting to go grey, my dear."

Cordelia frowned, bringing a hand up to her hair, pinned back from her face. She hadn't noticed any changes from the roan red color it had always been. And her family wasn't prone to early greying. Then again, she was a grandmother now. By Barrayaran standards, she was getting old, and even by Betan standards, she was in the latter part of middle age.

_So, that's what's worrying him,_Cordelia thought. Aral had been pushed into admitting his own mortality with the heart attack, and goodness knows Miles had given them a lot of sleepless nights in his career, but this was the first time he might admit that _she_ wasn't going to live forever. "Well, I suppose it had to happen eventually. Alys will probably be on the comconsole soon, suggesting all kinds of rinses to make it go better with the red," she said, giving herself time to think of something more substantial. "I've already told her I refuse to dye it." She was done with changing the color of her hair after the Blue Hair Incident in university.

"It's not that noticeable yet," Aral answered. "I just..."

"It is a reminder that we're getting old," Cordelia replied. Lots of things were nowadays, whether it was the inability to dance the night away at Winterfair or even small things like her reminding him not to overindulge in Ma Kosti's cooking when they visited Miles. Or even sitting in the parlor listening to the lawyer go over the will, with attention to the baroqueness of Barrayaran property law. Cordelia thought that _that_ would have been simple enough given the Countship, but there were all kinds of details regarding Mark's position, and her own possessions, and things that belonged to Aral, rather than Count Vorkosigan. Cordelia was about ready to suggest she and Aral blow all of their personal accounts on a spaceship and spend their twilight years exploring the galaxy. Who knows, he might have taken her up on it.

"What will you do when I die?" he asked her, turning her hand palm up in his own, and idly tracing the lines with a forefinger.

They hadn't talked about that. Not directly at least. "I expect I'll go back to Beta Colony after the funeral," she said. She _had_ thought about facing Barrayar without Aral, and decided it was too painful. Too many reminders of how much the world had eaten parts of her husband's and sons' lives, about how many close calls they had had, even if some things -- even people, like Mark -- would never have come into being without it. She had no love for Barrayar, save for the love she saw reflected in Aral and Miles's eyes -- she could love the world they saw, and maybe even her own work put into making it a place she could live. But the place, without the people who she loved, was meaningless to her.

Aral nodded. "I expected as much," he said. "And after that?"

Cordelia frowned. "I suppose I could find some hobbies to keep me busy."

"I'm surprised you haven't thought much about it," he said.

"I didn't think there was a need to. It's not immediately pending." She was starting to picture it now, memories of her old life on Beta Colony, snatched in between outward missions, and overlaid with her perception of her mother and brother. It seemed... empty. Not just of Aral, but of Alys and Miles and Gregor and Kou and Drou, and of many other people. Like she had really become an old woman, outliving and outstepping everyone around her, like some kind of relativistic traveler, reunited only in whatever the afterlife might be.

She hadn't thought of it quite like that. It was almost enough to make her consider which would be worse -- the sharp pain of Aral not being where he should be, or the loss by inches of her other Barrayaran family and friends.

"Though, my dear captain?"

"Yes?" Cordelia turned to look at her husband, seated next to her, still breathing.

"If you do die on Beta, I would ask if you'd be willing to be buried on Barrayar, next to me."

Cordelia remembered the graveyard in Vorkosigan Surleau, with the remains of all the counts since Vorkosigan Vashnoi had been turned into so much radioactive wasteland by the Cetegandians, and she remembered Piotr being interred there, next to his long-gone wife, with Aral and Miles, still in the cast from his first try at getting into the Military Academy, burning the offerings for the old man.

It was its own sort of immortality, Barrayaran-style, next to your love, making another square meter richer for life, and with your grandchildren remembering you. A mix of superstition and practicality, with far more sentimentality than any one would say, or even considered. Not what she might have pictured for an afterlife, but as much as part of it as the immortal souls of her faith. "Of course," she answered. "It won't be for a long time, but it can be arranged." She stood up, keeping hold of Aral's hand. "But we're not dead yet, so let's remind those young people of that."

He nodded. "As you wish, my dear."

She ended up forgetting her gloves anyway, but her hands and heart were warm enough wrapped in Aral's as they walked to the groundcar.

* * *

**Author's Note**  
Written for the 2nd Promptathon for the Older_Not_Dead community at Livejournal. The prompt was any pairing, any fandom, 'red and white'. Thanks to my beta-reader, Beatrice Otter.


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